


Don't You Know?

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-22
Updated: 2005-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Van is killed, Starsky consoles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Know?

Starsky came to him. As Hutch knew he would, just as he had only twice before. The first time had been when Vanessa had left; her dramatic exit that of a wife scorned—not in love, but in her selfish desire. Starsky was his balm, and his reward for staying with the one partner when faced with an ultimatum from the other.

The second time had been when Gillian departed so abruptly, hers the exit of the damaged heroine, broken like a cherished doll that couldn't bear the punishment of hard play. Hutch's only comfort was the strong arms of his partner holding him tight, holding him upright.

Both times, Hutch guiltily took from Starsky the physical consolation he had no right to ask; but Starsky seemed to know it was the only thing that would keep him tethered to rationality. Afterward, there was no need to speak of it, so they didn't. But Hutch kept both memories deep and precious, and viciously quashed impossible yearnings for more. Starsky was too valuable to risk on a path that had ever only led to disappointment, failed dreams and unfulfilled intentions.

Now Van was dead. And after the frantic running and desperate bid for real justice, after the case had been settled to the satisfaction of all and everyone promptly had forgotten their easy betrayal of faith, Starsky came to him. The expression on his face was plain, the offer clear. But Hutch found he couldn't look at his friend. He couldn't look at himself through Starsky's eyes, seeing only failure and death.

Hutch slouched on the sofa where he had sat for the past four hours trying to gather the energy to walk the four feet to the kitchen table and finish the shot of brandy Starsky had poured so long ago. Even at one foot per hour, it was still too far.

"What're you doing?" Starsky asked, patient and sad.

"Sittin'." His response earned him an arched brow and disgusted snort. And also, a warm body that dropped down next to him, and a hand on his thigh, rubbing lightly. Still, he managed to muster himself enough to ask, "Why?"

"Don't you know?" Starsky asked in a dry whisper.

Hutch shook his head. He didn't know. He thought, once, he had known with utter assurance that he was worth all this trouble, but that time had passed. Seemed like nowadays he was riding on nothing but air.

A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling until he toppled like dead timber into his friend's embrace.

"You always give me so goddamn much. I don't want you to do this," Hutch whispered, so ashamed he had to bury his words in the rough material of Starsky's shirt. "This isn't you."

"How do you know?" Starsky asked, and pressed his cheek to Hutch's head.

Hutch's neck stiffened at the blatant falsehood. "Don't. Don't lie for me," he said, voice husky with disappointment.

The arm around him shifted to let a hand grasp his shoulder, and it shook him a little, gently. "How do you _know_?" The gruff voice took no prisoners.

Hutch's jaw dropped, and he stammered a little, elevated from his lethargy by sheer astonishment. "I do...be-because. I just do. Like I know gravity works. I mean, ask me a tough one, for Pete's sake."

Starsky sighed and stared hard, his gaze blue granite. "Okay. Do you love me?"

In the yawning silence that followed Hutch could practically hear the hair on his scalp lift. He was suddenly very, very alert.

Didn't Starsky know they didn't talk about that shit? Ever? Except maybe Starsky did know; it was clear from his expression, from the defensive jutting of his jaw and the hooded eyes that, whatever his reason for asking such an astonishing question, he was expecting Hutch to make the joking half-truth, the easy prevarication, transparent to them both and yet still avoiding a straight answer. Because they both knew what a coward Hutch was; the fact Starsky was asking simply drew that painfully to light.

So fuck him. And fuck Vanessa, for lying, and fuck Gillian, for dying.

He raised his chin. "More than my life. More than I have anything or anyone, ever. Don't _you_ know?" Hutch said, voice cracking like the first snap of spring thaw in a frozen lake.

This time it was Starsky's jaw that dropped—plummeted, really—to hang loosely in damp surprise. Hutch smiled inwardly in spite of the nervous hum in his veins that told him he had just jumped off a building with no safe landing below. He felt his feet tingle as he waited for a response.

It was Starsky's mouth that answered, hot and wet on his, the force of his attack pushing Hutch back hard into the cushion behind him. His own gasp of surprise was swallowed whole and then returned in a panting moan that raised goose pimples on the flesh of his arms. Clawing hands tore his shirt open, baring him to further assailment. He groaned as teeth met tensile, sensitive flesh, and his cock roared to attention.

"Jesus. Christ." He could only whisper it, breath stolen. This couldn't be happening, Starsky's hunger matching his own, Starsky's hands demanding his response and not the other way around. Didn't Starsky know that Hutch was the greedy supplicant, and Starsky his benevolent altruist? But the eager lips sucking their way down his torso gave evidence that either Hutch had completely lost his marbles, or Starsky wanted him.

Wanted. Him.

"I'm gonna have you, Hutch. Gonna make you forget she ever lived," Starsky affirmed it, jealousy tainting his tone.

Hutch's clothing was impatiently removed so that hands, fingers, tongue and lips could work him over, excite him; ready him for the final assault. He had never given this. Starsky had never asked. But now he wasn't asking, he was demanding, not even needing Hutch's cooperation, just his passive compliance as he was prepared and positioned, a thick cockhead poised to take him.

He didn't think. Thinking was for cowards. He just lived it, lived the first press of hard flesh entering him strongly, unhesitatingly. His cries of pain and pleasure, both, were ignored. Starsky just whispered passion words as he started moving within him, his groin slick with sweat as it slammed into Hutch's ass on each thrust. God the thrust of that cock, making him love it, need it, wonder how he had lived these past years without his partner's cock inside him. He might have screamed. He might have babbled, begged for it not to stop, for it to go on endlessly in that terrible rhythm which threatened to shatter his mind. And then, mercifully, it did. He cried out in aching release as he shot the contents of his balls, feeling himself quivering and convulsing helplessly around the shaft of Starsky's cock, hearing his partner shout his name as he took his own pleasure.

When it was done, Hutch lay passively, as if his will had been taken along with his cherry. A hand gentled him, flat against his back, stroking his buttock possessively. It didn't still the deep trembling that had taken him from the moment Starsky had. It didn't soothe the fears that rose up immediately to haunt him with their dire predictions.

But then he felt Starsky's heated body cover his, his hands tenderly petting the sweat-dampened hair at the nape of Hutch's neck; Starsky's chin resting on his shoulder.

"Hutch." The gentle, chiding whisper blew across Hutch's ear, promising everything, demanding the same. Hutch closed his eyes in acceptance as Starsky's lips touched his temple.

"Now you know."

 _  
_   
_Finis._

 

  
February 2005  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
